


Love and Other Stupid Human Tricks

by WitchQueen (zvi)



Category: NSYNC
Genre: Hiatus, Humor, M/M, Popslash - Freeform, Remixed, Russia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2002-10-10
Updated: 2002-10-10
Packaged: 2017-10-02 01:53:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zvi/pseuds/WitchQueen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The three J's play yenta. Because they <em>can<em>.</em></em></p>
            </blockquote>





	Love and Other Stupid Human Tricks

**Author's Note:**

> **Notes**: Trickyfish community [challenge](http://www.livejournal.com/talkread.bml?journal=trickyfish&;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;itemid=23414)  
> **Remix**: [Somewhere Along the Way remix](http://boudicca.com/oncebitten/remix/2004/zvi.html) by steph

#### A Funny Thing Didn't Happen on the Way to International Pop Fame

The funny thing about it: Joey, Justin, and JC were straight.

Why was it exactly that Lance, bi, and Chris, gay, had each had sex with their three mutual best friends, but never with each other?

"I think," said Lance, his enunciation slow, clear, and thoroughly Southern, since the rye and ginger in his hand had been preceded by two others, "because it would have been trouble."

"Huh?" grunted Chris. He was sprawled on his stomach on Lance's couch, nursing his fourth beer.

"With Joey, Justin, and C, we could never have a grand love affair. They were between girls, we wanted to suck dick, and it was easier than most of our other options. But you and me? We could have done something messy and stupid. Fall in love. Come out. So, we didn't."

"Huh," agreed Chris.

Lance, prone on the floor next to the couch, flipped over on his back."This is no longer a problem."

Chris snored.

Lance sighed. Then he jumped up and stripped off his freshly beer-soaked shirt. He kicked the couch. "Asshole."

#### Phone Call Transcript 5 June 2007

Participants: Justin Randall Timberlake [CA], Joshua Scott Chasez [AZ],Joseph Anthony Fatone Jr. [NY]

`JRT`

Joey, why are we having a group meeting without Chris and Lance?

`JAF`

Chris did something to Lance. I want you to make him fix it.

`JSC`

Lance called me yesterday. He's fine.

`JAF`

No, he's broken. He keeps calling me in the middle of the night to say he misses all of the _dancing_!

`JRT/JSC`

…What?

`JAF`

Told you he was broken.

`JRT`

But is he drunk when he calls you?

`JAF`

Yeah, pretty much.

`JRT`

Vodka makes him all nostalgic, man.

`JAF`

Yeah, but it usually makes him nostalgic for _Russia_.

`JSC`

But since he's in Russia, he's nostalgic for us. It's the, um, the reciprocal, see?

`JRT`

Lance is in Russia!

`JAF`

Yeah, he wanted to take the time to see it; he didn't get to do the tourist thing when he was being all space camp. So, a week in St. Petersburg, a week in Moscow, three weeks in Kiev, and a week in Star City.

`JRT`

Well, that's why he's calling in the middle of the night.

`JAF`

Huh?

`JRT`

He didn't call you randomly because you were such a bitch if somebody woke Bri up from her nap, and you were out all the time anyway, but he called me when-the-fuck-ever. He can't keep more than four timezones straight in his head; you know that.

`JSC`

I told him when to call his mom in Europe, you know.

`JAF`

Oh. Maybe Chris didn't break him.

`JSC`

Course not. He might have made a pass at him, that's all.

`JRT/JAF`

…What?

`JSC`

Chris has had a thing for Lance since, like, 2004.

`JRT`

No way! Chris could totally have bagged Lance sometime in the past three years.

`JSC`

But he didn't want to because, you know, Culture Club.

`JAF`

Right, right. Lance—that's why Lance never, because of that.

`JRT`

Explain, Joe.

`JAF`

Boy George and the drummer—I can never remember his name—they had this horrible affair, and Boy George ended up on heroin, and it was awful. Totally broke the band up.

`JSC`

Wait. So does Lance?

`JAF`

Yeah. Like, after he got back from space and he was going on and on about how the whole world was different and he had this new perspective and you just wanted to smack him except he'd also turned into the sweetest guy in the world? One of the things he thought was different was Chris.

`JRT`

Why doesn't anybody ever tell me shit like this?

`JSC`

I thought you knew.

`JAF`

You were still being disgustingly Justified. And Lance didn't plan on doing anything about it, so…

`JRT`

They could do something _now_.

`JAF/JSC`

…What?

#### An Interlude in which No one Sparkles

The phone rang. It was 8:55, five minutes before the office officially opened. With his luck, it would be the boss calling to say he had adopted a pride of Siberian tigers, and would Tomàs please call the vet. Which might mean he'd found a stray kitten and needed a vet. Or it could mean he'd pledged to fund an exhibit at the National Zoo, and Tomàs needed to contact the financial people.

The phone rang again. Tomàs pursed his lips and answered. "Mr. Kirkpatrick's office. De La Hoya speaking."

"Tomàs? This is Gina, hon. Open up his calendar."

He rolled his eyes, but turned to face his computer. "Farinelli. Your boss has my boss's direct numbers, all of them. On speed dial. Why does he have you calling me before our office opens?"

"That's not fair, Tomàs. There are plenty of times he calls your capo direct. But right now, the Timberlake want to schedule your guy for five straight days sometime in the next month. If he called Kirkpatrick direct, your capo would just point out that he never keeps track of his own schedule and switch him over to you. And you, for reasons no one but you understands, detest the Timberlake, and he knows this and it bothers him, so he just avoids you.

"Now, when is the Kirkpatrick free?"

Tomàs sipped his coffee and considered. "Everything looks reschedulable between the 15th and the 20th." Not coincidentally, this would mean Tomàs was free on his birthday. Maybe he'd go visit his mother, get some real home cooking.

"Okay, I'll book the arrangements. Call me so I can ticket it when you've confirmed that he's free and willing to go."

Tomàs cracked his knuckles. He didn't want to ask, didn't want to hear the answer, but his boss would want to know. "Where are they going?"

Farinelli giggled evilly. "I'm never at liberty to say, muchacho, but the message is 'The inbred mice pups send their love to their Uncle Chris, Chris A. has cancelled the restraining order, and Poofu toys are the best.'"

Tomàs groaned. Maybe he would take Kirkpatrick's upcoming vacation as a chance to look for a new job. "Why won't they speak English?"

Farinelli laughed loudly at him, then hung up.

#### Planning is Essential; Plans are Useless

Lance heard a knock on his hotel room door and tensed up, thinking about crazed fans and the Russian Mafia holding him for ransom. Then the knock repeated, and Lance recognized the pattern which meant, "Get the hell out of the quiet room. Curtain's in half an hour." He was tempted to leave whoever it was twisting in the wind, but when the knock came a third time, he got up and opened the door.

Chris held out a bottle of rye.

Lance looked down at the rye and back up at Chris. Chris looked good; his hair was in braids, hanging past his shoulders, and he was a little leaner than his usual non-touring weight. "Why are you here, man?"

"I had a yen for borscht?"

Lance frowned. "You hate beets. And you live two hours from Boston, where we have eaten the best borscht in North America. Try again."

Chris was doing the Look of Ultimate Horror. His left hand, the one without a bottle in it, was clutched to his chest, and he'd theatrically recoiled. "Borscht does not have beets! Why would you say such a horrible thing, Lance?"

"Because it's true, you numbnut. That's why it's beet red. What did you think that was, blood?"

Chris nodded. "You know what? The last thirty seconds did not go according to plan. I say we back up and start over." He reached for the door knob.

Lance held on to it tightly. "Chris, no, man, seriously, what are you doing here?"

Chris rolled his eyes and rubbed his chin aggressively. "I am really calling a replay here. You practically growled at me when you opened the door, then you said those horrible things about borscht, you bastard, and the plan has been blown to smithereens."

Lance carefully moved his foot to block the door, then crossed his arms. "Chris, have you turned into a deranged stalker?" He scratched his chin. "That would suck a lot. What is this plan you keep talking about?"

"Look, I'm a man on a mission, Bass. A secret mission, so I can't exactly tell you what it is. But I can tell you this much: if we do a replay, it is part of the mission to eventually tell you what's going on."

Lance sighed. Then he pushed Chris backwards and slammed the door in his face. He listened, but there was no satisfying thump on the other side, just a muttered, "Bitch."

Lance chuckled and waited. He opened the door at the first knock.

Chris gave his most winning smile, and Lance felt a smidgen of the fear that had shot through him when he first heard a knock at his door. "Come here, Bass."

Chris was crooking his finger, and his grin was coy. "Come here, Lance. I'm not going to hurt you."

Lance bent forward.

"Closer," Chris whispered.

Lance's heart sped up, as he thought about those first months after he'd come back from space, about a drunken night in his Floribama home. But Chris couldn't be about to kiss him in a public hallway.

He felt a hand wrap around his bicep, squeeze it.

"Just a little closer," Chris breathed.

"What do you want?" Lance whispered.

"You." Chris kissed him.

The first brush of mouth on mouth was soft, quiet, like leaves in autumn. Then Lance inhaled, and Chris smelled so right, like home and love, and Lance had to taste, see if the smell was the same inside.

It was, only better, hot sweet spice that Lance fell into, that welcomed him in. Lance reached out for Chris, pressed himself tightly around Chris's firm body, against Chris's hard on.

Chris's hands dug into Lance's arm, and Lance whimpered into Chris's mouth, whimpered and dug deeper, slicked his tongue along the sharp edges of Chris's teeth, put his hands on Chris's ass and pulled himself closer, and kept on sipping at the strangely familiar pleasure of Chris's mouth until he couldn't breathe.

When they broke apart, he gasped for air, then began to lick, across Chris's jaw, underneath Chris's ear, along Chris's neck. Chris clutched at him and murmured harshly, "Oh, you fucker. I knew it'd be like this. You're so goddamned hot and sexy. I just want to touch you, take off your clothes and look at you and lick you and fuck you. I've wanted this so long, you have no idea, motherfucker, all the things I want to do to you." On and on like that, a buzz of harsh endearments in Lance's ear as Lance could not stop tasting Chris, sucking on the tips of Chris's ears and licking at Chris's neck and working his way back to that mouth, a mouth which never stopped talking except while Lance was kissing it.

At first, when he heard Chris singing Falling, he thought he was having an intensely metaphorical moment. Then he thought Chris might actually be singing. It was only when Chris said, "Bass, I _get_ it that I'm completely fucking irresistible, but I gotta take this," that Lance realized Chris had one of those really annoying cell phones that used audio files as its ringtone.

He turned around stalked back to the couch. He was now hard and annoyed and, strangely enough, hungry. He picked up the room phone and ordered two bowls of borscht and half a loaf of black bread from room service.

He tuned in to Chris's conversation just in time to hear, "…excellent plan, Jup. I owe Ms. Aguilera a week of babysitting." Chris giggled maniacally into the phone. "She's your _wife_, dude, what do you want?" Then his eyes met Lance's and his smile faded. "Uh, gotta go, Justin. Storm clouds on the horizon." He thumbed the phone off, and slipped it in his pocket without breaking eye contact.

"You planned this with Justin? What the hell, Chris?"

Chris shook his head, "No, this was all Justin's idea." His eyes widened and he smacked his forehead. "I mean, I've been interested in you a long time, but nothing happened, and we were in the band, and it seemed all incest-y at the time, but we broke up, so Justin said maybe I should." He swallowed audibly. "Just shut up." He nodded firmly, a small grimace on his face.

Lance rolled his eyes. The kiss hadn't really changed anything. Chris was still Chris, jumpy and tactless and adorable. And hot as hell. "Maybe we should try some of those things you were talking about before Justin so rudely interrupted."

Chris smiled, toothy and dangerous. Then he walked over to the couch with a rolling pelvic thrust and said, "You're just about as hot as me, Bass, and I really like that in a guy."

They made out on the couch for a while after that, but they broke apart to eat when the borscht arrived. The meal was strange, but only inasmuch as it was so familiar. Chris groaned when Lance announced they were eating at the dining table. Chris complained loudly about being made to eat beets, and Lance pointed out that this particular version of borscht was heavy on the beef chunks and had enough sour cream that he could ignore the beets. Chris attempted to make spitwads out of borscht-soaked portions of black bread, and Lance calmly and neatly ate first his soup, then the bread, avoiding any possible contamination. Even playing footsie under the table wasn't unusual, although there was usually more violence and less desire implicit in the action.

When they'd finished eating, Chris stalked around the table, his intent evident to Lance. But Lance put up a hand to stop him. "I, um, have to make a phone call."

Lance could feel himself blushing. It was so embarrassing after his earlier hissyfit about Justin.

Chris looked at him sideways, then nodded. "So, we'll cuddle while you talk, and I'll be a good boy and not even nibble on you. Much." He grinned and pulled Lance up from the table.

Lance resisted being pulled toward the couch, pushed Chris in that general direction and headed towards the bedroom. "I've got to get my phone first."

He walked out of the bedroom with the phone ringing in his ear, and grinned when he saw Chris sprawled across the sofa cushions, mouth open and wet.

Lance suspected lip gloss.

He lay back in Chris's arms, could smell the artificial cherry and had just turned to taste it when Joey picked up. "Lance. It's incredibly fucking dark outside and if this is a drunken ode to dancing, I'm hanging up right now."

"Nah, Joey, it's nothing like that. You just wanted to know if you were right as soon as possible."

"Uh huh. Right about what?"

"That first kiss from Chris _is_ a little slice of heaven."

"…What?"


End file.
